


Slippin' Howard

by Roadstergal



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Con Artists, Drinking, Gen, Jealousy, Other, Sexual Orientation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 03:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16526885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: I really loved the prompt of a drunk and desperate Howard looking to Jimmy for a little walk on the Slippin' Jimmy side.  I tried to explore how that might happen, and how it might turn out.





	Slippin' Howard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VSSAKJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VSSAKJ/gifts).



He didn't belong.

It was as clear to everyone else as it was to him. This bar - dark, the floor sticky with dried beer, smelling vaguely of urine, unwashed bodies, and misery - had not seen a silk suit in its entire existence.  Everyone they're looked at him with some mixture of curiosity and suspicion, from the hulking, bearded patrons at the table in the corner to the cockroach in the nut dish, waving its antennae at him suspiciously.  _I might be a parasitic disease vector_ , it seemed to say, _but you're a_ lawyer... 

The beer tasted like they had taken the HHM janitor's mop bucket and put it through a coarse filter. If it had any alcohol in it, it wasn't working. Howard choked it down.

"Want a refill?" the bartender asked.  As a good bartender who valued a tip now and then, he had been refraining from staring.  He did loom, however, his tattooed brown shoulders blocking out the sickly light.

"Do you have anything stronger?"

The bartender stepped back and waved at the row of dusty bottles on the shelf behind him. Howard couldn't read the labels on any of them. "What chu want?"

"I'll take a whiskey."

The color of the liquid in the sticky shot glass was correct, at least.  It went down like drain cleaner, scraping Howard's throat raw. He waved the empty glass.

The second one went down far more easily.

So did the third.

He wasn't quite certain which one he was on when a different hand covered his own. He looked at that hand blearily. Skinny and nervous, hair on the backs of the fingers.  The nails were jagged and uneven, trimmed by teeth and nervous picking, not neatly manicured like Howard's.  "Hey, didn't expect to run into you here." That voice always went right to Howard's spine.

"I expected to run into you," Howard said, carefully. The wrist attached to that hand was covered by a cheap pink shirt, but one kept painfully clean.  He followed it up the arm to the collar, the head atop with the lines of a goofy grin permanently etched into the face, the hair parted like an eight-year-old's.

"Oh yeah?" Jimmy's infinitely flexible face bent itself into a confused frown. "Not really your kind of place, is it? Doesn't quite have the right," he waved his hand, "Hamlin-Hamlin-McGill ambiance?"

"No," Howard replied, doing his best to fix his bleary gaze on Jimmy. "That's the idea."

"I gave you a card…”

“Yes,” Howard said, sharply.   A shrink’s card.  Like Howard was fucked in the head.  And he was, but not… not like that.  Surely.  He just needed to understand what had happened, to wrap his mind around it, to learn to adjust.  He could do that.  He had graduated summa from Yale and sailed through Harvard Law, ripping through the bar like it was a children’s primer.  He could learn anything.

“I mean…” Jimmy leaned on the bar, looking over the patrons.  He looked no more like them than Howard did, but still, he looked like he _belonged_.  A strange chameleon of a human, the same skin adapting itself to any situation.  Even the sorts of formal board rooms where he _truly_ had no business.  “I had no idea it’d hit you so hard.  Chuck.”

“Yea.”  Howard turned the glass in front of his face, noting the overlapped, greasy fingerprints.  If he used it to kill a man, it’d be the perfect untraceable murder weapon.  “Chuck.”  But not for any love or affection.  Howard had neither, for Chuck.  No, it was the _way_ it had happened.  One of the best lawyers Howard had ever known, a man with a devastating legal mind, insightful when drafting cases, unflappable in the courtroom.  And Jimmy had destroyed him, devastated him, undone him.  And now _Kim_.  A very smart girl, yes, but until she had spent time with Jimmy, nothing more than that.  Her skills, the ones she had picked up from being around Jimmy, had catapulted her skywards.  She terrified Howard, now.  What _was_ he, anymore?  He didn’t know how this worked.  He had to learn.  He pulled himself upright.  “I want to know how to do this.”

“This?  Drink?  Doin’ a pretty good job already, there, Howard!”  Jimmy chucked him on the shoulder.

“No.  You know what I mean.” He looked Jimmy straight in his insincere, dark eyes.  “I want to know how you do your thing.”

Jimmy laughed without humor, turning away slightly, looking as the group in the corner got into an argument about sports teams, or who was sleeping with who’s sister, or whatever it was that guys like that got in arguments about, Howard didn’t give a damn.  “How stupid do you think I am?”

“Want to check me for a wire?  Want me to take my clothes off?”

Jimmy turned back to regard him.  “Maybe just the shirt.”

* * *

The bathroom was worse than the main room.  The floor was exactly as sticky, but it had the sharp, acidic smell of stale urine mixed with the sour smell of stale beer.  Graffiti made the mirrors all but useless, the cousin of the bar cockroach was swimming gently in the sink, and sexually explicit messages were carved into the stall doors.  _Tom sux cok. Your sister fucks good.  Glory hole bastards_.

“I’m going to have to burn my clothes if I put them on anything here,” Howard groused, looking around.

Jimmy held out his hand.  “I’ll hold them.”

Howard took off his jacket, hanging it carefully on Jimmy’s outstretched hand.  The blue tie went next, then his shirt, carefully unbuttoned, shed, and handed to Jimmy.  “See? Nothing.”

Jimmy circled him, patting Howard’s pants pockets.  “Wow, you shave?”

“Wax,” Howard said, archly, “and it’s none of your damned business.”

“Right,” Jimmy replied, circling back around to the front, looking Howard up and down, his gaze penetrating.  “I have just the caper for _you_ , my friend.”

* * *

Jimmy’s Suzuki dieseled to a coughing halt.  The place they had pulled up in front of was better than the one they had left, but that was a very, very low bar.  So to speak.  Howard would still use the word _dive_ to describe its dark exterior with the sullen, overhanging eaves, the dark windows with flickering neon signs advertising _Bud Lite_ and _Coors_ and _Old Milwaukee_.  “Don’t you go to _nice_ places, Jimmy?” His Mercedes was still parked across from the other bar, and Howard was just counting on the insurance, at this point. 

“Nice places,” Jimmy replied, holding up one finger, “are for when you’re good at this and ready for the next level.  Places like this, all dark and hopeless – you can get away with mistakes.  And you, Howard, are going to make mistakes.”

“So you say.”  Howard got out of the car, and almost fell. He grabbed the door, which creaked alarmingly, swaying until his inner ears settled down.

“Whoo, you’re not used to the drain cleaner Old Blind Tommy serves, are you?”  Jimmy slapped him on the back, and Howard almost vomited onto his shoes.  Not that they were doing so well tonight anyway.  “Think you can stay upright for this one?”

“Yeah.” Howard took a deep breath.  As long as they didn’t order any more hard alcohol.

“Come on, then.” Jimmy slipped his arm through Howard’s in a distressingly intimate gesture, pulling him into the dark bar.

There were more patrons at this one, and they were livelier.  Two games of pool were ongoing, the thud of the cue and the click of balls hitting balls a soothing counterpoint to the shitty techno music.  Some older men were playing darts in the corner, while the younger ones congregated around the pool tables or the bar.

“Hey, Johnny,” the bartender said.  Young, pale, his hair bleached, wooden plugs in his ears and a ring in his nose.  “Looks like you have a new friend…”

“Yes!” Jimmy bumped fists with the kid, not correcting his name.  “Bobby, how you doin’?  How’s mom?”

The kid sighed heavily.  “Still not letting me come home.  Still prays for me at the church every Sunday.”

Jimmy shook his head sadly, leaning on the bar.  Howard watched with interest.  He _looked_ concerned, utterly concerned and caring.  Was it all an act? It was so real, so palpable.  Was _all_ of Jimmy’s affection an act?  Even to Kim?  “Well, it seems to me that if she cared for you, letting you stay where you have a bed and a hot dinner would be a lot more useful than lighting a candle, eh?”  He patted the kid’s hand.  The kid squeezed it, nodding.  “Well, you need anything, you just let me know, okay?  In the meantime, two beers, for me and my friend Harold.”

“Hi,” Howard told the kid, forcing a smile.  Harold?  _Really_?

The steins, at least, were reasonably clean – not that the dim lighting gave Howard much opportunity to be reasonable about it.  Jimmy took his arm and pulled him to a table.

“Gay bar,” Howard noted, quietly.  “If you’re trying to embarrass me, Jimmy, try again.”

“Johnny,” Jimmy said, archly.  “I’m Johnny, Harold, and you’re my _lovely_ boyfriend.  But, you know,” Jimmy leaned back, “a guy as good-looking as you, who can expect you to be faithful?  You’re _that guy_.  You flirt, and you make passes, and sometimes you get drunk and bring a boy home, and I get mad and break up with you, but it never sticks, because how is a guy like me going to get lucky enough to get a guy like you twice?”

 "Got it.” Howard leaned back.  How must it feel, to be so comfortable in your own skin?  To be the guy he was pretending to be, to _not_ be the guy who had high-end clients and a reputation that he couldn’t afford to jeopardize?  The appeal of this sort of thing hit him.  Suddenly, viscerally, like a surge tide at the beach.  For just one night, he could be someone else, the person he was _inside_ , the person he tied up so tightly in the dark basement of his soul and never let out.

“Well, here’s your chance to practice.  Look at me, I have to use the bathroom…” And as soon as Jimmy had put his hand on the bathroom door to enter, a boy was already walking over, dressed in dirty coveralls, but with rich dark skin, a neat short beard, and a smile that would melt glaciers. 

“Hi,” he said.  “I’m Antonio.”

* * *

 The kid... wasn't very smart, but he had a lyrical way of speaking that was, at least, interesting to listen to.  Howard found himself nodding along with his banal stories, stories of _mama at home_ and _trouble at work_ and _cousin in prison_ , but in such a sweet, rich voice that Howard might simply drift away on it, doing the bare minimum of acknowledging replies that polite conversation required, and... his drink was empty.

 

"I'll get you a refill." Antonio reached over, putting his hand atop Howard's under the guise of taking his glass.  It was warm, and the calluses were stark against his soft skin.

"Nuh uh!" Jimmy pulled Howard's arm away.  "Come on, Harold, you agreed.  After last time!  We had a deal!"

Feeling a little shell-shocked and a lot out of his element, Howard could only go along with Jimmy's lead.  "All right, Johnny.  You're right."  He turned back to Antonio.  "He's right."

"Well." The kid smiled gently, standing, his strong hand raised slightly in farewell.  "I had a nice time talking to you, anyway.  I'm here most evenings, you know, especially weekdays..."

"Yeah, yeah.  We got it." Jimmy leaned in close to Howard, arm draped over his shoulders protectively, playing the role of the jealous partner in a distressingly natural way.

* * *

"Was that it?" Howard took a deep breath of the warm, dry desert air.  It cleared his head, helping him reorient himself.  On the sidewalk outside of a gay bar - check.  This was new.

"Yeah, not a bad start.  It's the easiest con in the world."  Jimmy held up a leather billfold.  "Distract someone with a pretty face, nick their wallet.  Now, it's not my favorite con, not by far.  It's too obvious, it doesn't net you much, and most importantly, it's outright _illegal_.  Max risk, minimum reward." He tapped Howard on the chest.  "Now, as a fine, upstanding member of the community, I do not do illegal things.  I'm going to take this in and give it to the bartender, because I found it on the ground outside and getting it back to its owner is the right thing to do.  Next time you're up for it, I'm going to show you some _completely legal_ , and super fun things to do."  Jimmy grinned, chucked him on the shoulder, and headed back into the bar.

Howard crossed the road with great care, leaning on the car.  His head was spinning with possibility as much as with alcohol.  _This_ is what Jimmy liked about his cons, his Slippin' Jimmy schemes?  And Kim, too?  The ability to just put on another persona, to try out another man's skin for an evening?  But where did you draw the line?  How much time could you spend in a skin you had made, one that was appealing to you, before you were tempted to never take it off - to throw away the decades you spent perfecting your own skin, coming as close to ideal as the world would let you, in the name of something you saw in a glimpse out of the corner of your eye

In a different world.  One that had different laws.

Howard wouldn't be doing this again.


End file.
